


until we meet again

by Blownwish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Gloryholes, M/M, Public Sex, anonymous sex that’s not so anonymous, dance floor sex, obsessed Otabek, otayuri - Freeform, restroom sex, sex kitten yuri, yet another fic where they’re having sex at the club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/pseuds/Blownwish
Summary: Yuri doesn’t realize he’s had contact with Otabek before Barcelona - very personal contact.





	until we meet again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/gifts).



> Live beta’d by [Annabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth) and inspired by [notgneissatall’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notgneissatall/pseuds/notgneissatall) Vain in Costume. 
> 
> And I am too stupid to get the fic link to work. But please read it despite my stupid? “Vain in Costume”: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386064
> 
> Long live my long suffering friends. -_-

If he thinks about it too much, he’s going to feel guilty. Yuri Plisetsky’s not supposed to be here. He’s not even sixteen, and yet here he is, sexed up in leggings and a barely there t, smack dab in a swarm of hungry animals on the dance floor. They’re going to eat him alive. Yeah, Otabek ought to feel guilty: he was the one who sent Plisetsky the anonymous invite. He ought to, but he doesn’t.

He’s too focused on that neat little belly button, the pert little ass just made for a man’s hands to squeeze, and the way it sways to the beat. If he was DJ tonight, he would slow the tempo so he could study how that ass moves. Make that kid grind slow and tight, back and forth, back and forth.

He watches anonymous bodies bump and grind against Plisetsky. Hands groping him, slipping under the shirt, over the crotch, pinching his ass. Otabek ought to be ashamed of himself. He should be. He isn’t. Not when he sees the way Plisetsky throws his head back, the way Plisetsky puts his hands over his head, the way Plisetsky fucking revels in the attention. Otabek knew he would.

Does Otabek leave the bar? Does he forget the vodka and push through too-cool Russians and tourists? Does he put his hands on that pink, flushed skin and brush his body against the boy who’s driven Otabek so far out of his mind, that he’s here, in Moscow, instead of training back at his home rink for Barcelona? No. No, he sits at the bar, watching Plisetsky, like he’s done for too many years. It’s a habit. No, an addiction.

Otabek only moves when Plisetsky leaves the dance floor. The crowd parts, like butter to a hot knife, and no one stands in Otabek’s way when he follows that sweet, tight ass into the men’s room. He wants to watch him stand in front of one of those filthy urinals, he wants to see if that cock is as pink as his lips, he wants to imagine holding it while Plisetsky pisses, grinding against his ass; to taste the salt and sweat on his tender neck, as he shakes out that last drop as everyone watches.

But Plisetsky goes into a stall. A stall at the end of the line, a stall with a door and a lock and he’s out of Otabek’s sight for the first time since he stepped into this place. Otabek is only slightly disappointed, though. The stall next to his just happens to be empty.

He shoves the blue haired asshole who’s about to take it away. Slams the door shut and stares at the partition separating them from the sounds of men cursing and pissing, and there are grunts coming from another stall further towards the front - men only take to these stalls for one thing - and Otabek is seriously thinking about peeking through the glory hole between him and his fantasy.

Until he gets other ideas.

_Why the hell not?_

The grunting gets louder. Otabek’s dick throbs, it always throbs when he thinks about him. How many nights did he spend lying on his back, staring into the darkness of his own soul, aching for something so far out of reach? Coming as he whispered one name, only one name.

_Why the hell not?_

But it isn’t out of reach anymore. It’s right there. He’s right there. Right on the other side of this filthy wall. Otabek can shove his dick in that hole. He can offer it to Yuri like a dish on a silver platter, no risk, no shame, and still face him in Barcelona, even if he turns Otabek down.

_Why the hell not?_

He pulls down his pants. He doesn’t have to work his dick because he’s already hard. All he has to do is push it through the hole. All he does is brace himself against the wall. All he can do is close his eyes. Hold his breath and wait. He’s been doing that for years. And he waits.

Then he starts realizing why he shouldn’t: Otabek is exposed. Plisetsky could actually hurt him. He doesn’t know who Otabek is and even if he did he probably wouldn’t care. Otabek is showing his hard on to a fifteen-year-old kid with a reputation for expressing himself through a kick.

And then he feels it. It’s warm, it’s _wet_ , and it’s a firm grip. Otabek closes his eyes. Otabek feels hot globs of spit splatter over his dick and then Otabek groans because it’s Yuri’s spit. He wonders what it tastes like - and then his hand _moves_ , slowly, testing the foreskin with firm tugs until Otabek’s head is— _oh_...

That was not a finger. That was too wet. Too soft. _Fucking nasty, beautiful, filthy boy._

He’s only fifteen. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not, but Otabek brought him here, Otabek knew what this place was about. And he isn’t sorry. He’s never going to be sorry. Not when the mouth he’s dreamt of is around his dick. And sucking. Sucking and licking. The boy is hungry for cock. He’s jerking what he can’t fit into his mouth while he crams the rest in.

Has Plisetsky done this before? How many times? How many men? Otabek wants to ask him and he doesn’t want to know. Otabek braces himself against the wall, presses his cheek against chipped paint that can’t hide years of crude drawings and long forgotten names. He wishes he could touch Plisetsky. His fingers scrape the wall as Plisetsky hums. He wishes he could see Plisetsky. He wishes Plisetsky could see him. Know him.

His mouth - his tongue - Otabek groans and he’s so close. So close and Otabek dreams of Yuri Plisetsky’s body moving to the music throbbing through the walls. His back arching, his hair cascading like a waterfall as Otabek catches him and pins him down and takes him - makes him -

 _Oh, fuck -_ Otabek thrusts and Otabek gasps and Otabek _comes_ into the warmest, warmest place and it’s so hard not to die a little. Maybe he is. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

Plisetsky keeps sucking, and it’s too much and Otabek has to pull away because it almost hurts and he huffs when Plisetsky slams against the wall. Otabek touches his wet foreskin. Licks it. How much is him, how much is Plisetsky?

A Doc Martin nudges Otabek’s Elsinore boots. There’s a tap. Otabek blinks and he sees the most delicious pink cock poking through the gloryhole as Plisetsky clears his throat.

 _Oh_.

Otabek doesn’t need to start with his hand. He doesn’t need to pretend he doesn’t know where to start. He’s been waiting years for this. Years - years that feel like nothing as he falls to his knees and he opens his mouth and he closes his eyes and he does more than dream. Finally.

Plisetsky tastes like piss and he whimpers, as if he’s never felt a mouth on his cock - and Otabek doesn’t dare let himself hope that’s true. But he can’t help it. He sucks hard, he pulls up, he pulls back the sweet foreskin and laps at the head and underneath and he imagines taking Yuri Plisetsky out of this club, out of Moscow, taking him to Almaty and setting him up in an apartment, where Otabek would spoil him, pamper him like a kitten, and Otabek would have him every night, over and over until Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t remember his own name. He would only scream, _Otabek! Otabek!_

Plisetsky is slamming his hips against the wall now. Thrusting into Otabek’s mouth and he can keep thrusting that pretty pink cock in Otabek’s mouth all night long. Otabek loves it. He wants it. He wants all that come so bad he’s already getting turned on, all over again. He’s going to suck this dirty boy - his _kitten_ \- off and he’s going to make him feel so, so good. And when he comes? When he sobs and when he spurts in Otabek’s mouth? Otabek swallows every drop.

He loves it.

And then, then it’s over. Yuri Plisetsky’s cock is gone and a zipper and a bang at Otabek’s stall door makes it clear that it’s time to get off his knees and leave. Plisetsky’s door slams open first. Otabek counts to ten.

He hasn’t had enough. Not near enough. He’s got the taste of come in his mouth and the feel of Plisetsky’s tongue on the brain and he’s got to have another fix. He’s got to.

Otabek follows him like a hound out of the men’s. Back the pulsing crowd, careful to fall back so Plisetsky can not see him. So he doesn’t know he’s being chased. But he is. Oh, he is.

The lights slide over Plisetsky’s skin as he looks up and lets the beat infuse his body. As he lets hands slip and slide over his clothes. Under his clothes. As some random asshole rides up behind him and pulls kitten too close. He will be gone.

Otabek peels him away and glares when the rando pulls back his fist.

Yuri Plisetsky, his kitten, his sweet, dirty kitten, doesn’t even turn to look and see who’s behind him as Otabek’s hands finally - finally! - slide over the creamy, smooth skin under his shirt, as he cups his ass and feels how tight, how gloriously fucking tight it is. And he pulls Plisetsky close. So close, his back is plastered against Otabek.

He’s Otabek’s and he doesn’t even know. He’s Otabek’s, all Otabek’s, as Otabek’s hand slides down and cups him there, right there, and Otabek moves against him. There, right there on the dance floor, where everyone can see. Everyone knows. His finger presses against Yuri’s mouth until those soft, wet lips open and suck it in.

Otabek isn’t dancing with him. He’s fucking him through their clothes as he pulls Yuri’s head back and licks his neck. Tastes the sweat and sex. Grinds into his ass and reaches under Plisetsky’s leggings. And finds him, hard again, because he’s a needy little kitty, he’s only fifteen and Otabek is going to take care of him, right here, as the bass thrums through their blood and bodies dance around them like a Rite of Spring.

No one can hear Plisetsky scream as he comes. But Otabek can feel it. He lifts up his hand and he can taste it. Otabek thrusts one more time. One last, delicious time as he presses his mouth against that soft blond hair and he’s never been closer to another person. He’s never felt closer to himself. Otabek comes as he whispers, _Yura…._

He has to leave before he turns around. He has to leave before he sees him and recognizes his face. He sinks back into the crowd. He becomes nameless, faceless as he leaves the lights and hides in a shadow custom made for post orgasmic reflection, where a man could find his mind again and decide who he had to be after he lost it.

But he couldn’t, even after a shot from the bar. He can still taste Yuri Plisetsky in his mouth. And he can see Yuri Plisetsky, fucked out and flushed, as hands and bodies brush over his body. His sweet, needy kitten. Oh, he’s still not sorry. He should be. The boy is too young. He’s only fifteen. Yeah - but Otabek isn’t sorry at all.

Otabek watches him until the club closes. Until the Uber comes and whisks Plisetsky away from this dirty little shithole no fifteen year old had any business in.

He follows in his Harley, several paces behind the blue SUV, and makes sure Plisetsky is dropped off at his hotel, safely - and _alone_. Plisetsky doesn’t know it, but he’s now spoken for. He is Otabek’s, and he will find out in good time.

Barcelona is just around the corner. They will meet, soon. 


End file.
